Election day eve, 2020 - hang on to your hats

            The weather in Maine feels portentous.
            We’ve been pummeled by a blustery, insistent buffeting of wind over the last two days, spitting rain and sleet and snow. It’s hard to capture on camera, especially the sound, the roar and whoosh and whipping of trees, the dance and fling and whirlwinds of leaves. The sheer force of it evades the power of a still photo – the slog of walking into the wind, like fighting the tide, a deepwater striding, the wheelbarrows toppled and branches bent, the eddies of debris flung into the sky, leaves simultaneously flinging up from the ground and down from the treetops. Hard to tell which way the world is moving.
            Here is a photograph of the surf on Sutton Island yesterday. We’d just shut off our water, antifreezed the pipes for the winter, when the ferryboat threatened to skip our island stop. We have no water! They relented. The second photo is our backyard, today. When the gusts hit as you round a corner, they knock you off track. Even when they remain distant, overhead in the trees, their dramatic acrobatics intimidate. They shanghai the trees into service as reluctant, albeit flexible partners, most of them, except the ones that break.
            Tonight, storms of bluster pummel our airwaves and our headspace. Tornadoes of activity engender intensity but little clarity. There’s no escaping. Something’s coming our way.
            Let’s hope these are winds of positive change. Hang on to your hats, everybody.